Come Undone
by lotuskasumi
Summary: These two make much ado about what they certainly haven't noticed and long since admired about each other's appearances. Oh the things you learn by looking into mirrors, but not at your own reflection. (Whouffle/Twelve x Clara, featuring tsundere!Doctor)


Like most situations with the Doctor these days, the tone of what should have been a perfectly harmless conversation involving appearances had quickly turned sour – but not sour enough to be purely bitter. There must have been a word for it, Clara decided, because there were words for almost anything, but she wasn't sure what it could be. All she knew was that it was not, _could not _be bittersweet. That word was too on the nose, too overplayed and trite. It was a flavor and a tone and a change she did not understand and struggled to identify, though in the meantime a part of her mind had decided to simply call it _Doctory_.

And on this particular evening, the Doctor was being quite Doctory. More than she'd anticipated. There was a work-related function that required Clara's attendance that night – dinner, drinks, polite chatter and smiles, proving that each teacher had a life and a purpose beyond classroom drudgery. Naturally she wanted to look nice.

"For who?" the Doctor asked at once, as if looking nice had never struck him as a thing remotely possible.

_Just a bit too curious there, aren't we? _No, that had to be her imagination. His voice had a natural barbed edge and spike in it now, to say nothing of the accent.

"For myself," she replied, not missing a beat and not missing the way his face did not change from its blank, curious expression. "It's not exactly uncommon to do things to make yourself happy," she added, not knowing why she felt the need to be on the defensive now.

"There's a word for that, you know," he said.

"There's lots of words for it," she fired back, turning to face the mirror so that she could see her face as well as his own. "I call it _sensible_."

He muttered something.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing." But the lie was written all over his face and Clara stared at it in the glass, wondering how best to pick it apart. She was absolutely, irrevocably sure she heard him say something along the lines of, "_I call it Clara-y_," but his voice had been too low – and that response sounded far too much like the _old _him to be true.

Before she could make up her mind about what to do, the Doctor stepped forward and pointed at a little bow in the box where Clara kept her best accessories. He lifted it up quickly, folding his fingers around the shiny sequins so their brightness vanished in a flash.

"This would look nice on you – if your hair weren't gold for some reason." The Doctor frowned as he held the bow up to Clara's hair and looked between the real thing and the reflection, his scowl and lines deepening with every pass. "Why's it all gold now? What did you do to it? I liked it how it was – well, I _say _like, but…_settled for _is a proper answer."

The temptation to make a suggestion about hair dyes and salon visits and a sudden preponderance of gray follicles made Clara's tongue burn. She bit down on it hard before trusting herself to answer. "They're called highlights," she said.

The Doctor frowned. "Those neon yellow things you use to mark up the books I give you? Not that those come _cheap, _by the by – not that you _ask_."

Clara's eyebrows shifted. "I was always taught that it was rude to ask how much someone spent on a _gift _for you." She emphasized the key word, catching his eyes in the mirror and driving the point home with a mirthless smile. "And I mark up my books because I love them and want them to feel loved – not that you _asked_." She paused. "And no, I don't mean those highlighters." She touched her hair, fluffing the ends and turning her head from side to side. "These are different. More expensive."

"Money well spent," he huffed, looking at the bow again and shifting it to another part of her hair. "It doesn't look bad back here – it hides that awful bump in your scalp."

Clara removed the black sequin bow from his hand and placed it back on her vanity. "There is no bump on my scalp," she told him firmly, calmly, quietly, the way she had to explain to some students that no, they could not hand in a late paper _yet again_ and get full marks because that was _not_ how things were done.

The Doctor would not let this stand unopposed. "There is so, I can see it." He lifted a hand as if to touch her hair, and she drew in her breath quickly, suddenly, her shoulders tensing up. In anticipation, or surprise? But then he drew back as if burned, and Clara wasn't sure of her own answer.

Clara's shoulders relaxed. After a beat, the Doctor chose to point at her hair instead, drawing his finger up and down. "It's in the shape of the horse-head nebula. Remarkable."

"Your eyes've gone funny," she muttered. She kept her eyes down, her mouth shut, and her temper writ all over her face, knowing that the Doctor was peering at her reflection, reading every turn of her expression. His gaze was a new thing, a presence she wasn't sure what to do with quite yet. Still the same sad eyes, despite the change in color and shape and distance and curious little turns of expression and mood she often saw twisting inside them. Still the same eyes belonging to the same man in a new face – Clara wasn't sure she'd ever wrap her mind around that. But she could try.

After a few quiet minutes of her digging through the box of accessories and him either disliking or flat out ignoring each choice, thereby thoroughly ruining the whole point of having someone around to give advice in the first place, Clara laid her hands flat on the vanity. The little _smack _and rattle was satisfying, as if she'd stomped her foot and let out a scream.

"That's it," she said, giving her head a small shake.

"What's it?"

"It's over. I'm done."

"With?"

"_This_." She moved her hand from herself and forward, to the Doctor's reflection. His posture was rigid, his attention focused, but when she made her move he came to life with a little start. Almost defensively, he put his hands into the pockets of his trousers, flapping open his new coat to show the red, bright and garish and like blood, like a wound. It distracted her the first time in the TARDIS. It wouldn't distract her now. "You're no help at all – and I distinctly remember asking you over _for _your help. Which _you_ offered to give."

"Because you asked for it."

"And what are you doing now?"

"Answering a question."

Clara picked up a brush, an imitation of the one she'd often seen and admired on her mother's own vanity set. Silver with a delicate ivy filigree along the back. She brought it up to her hair and began to work it through the locks. "I meant in general, not in this very moment."

The Doctor glanced up, to the side, then down at a point beyond Clara's sight. "… Standing in your room," he said, with almost offensively willful stubbornness.

"What are you _not _doing now?" Clara asked, throwing him a reprieve and then just as quickly snatching it back, attacking her hair with more vigorous brushing. "I'll answer for you – "

"Thought you might," he said.

Clara chose to ignore that. For now. "_Not helping_," she finished, tugging harder at her hair. She'd reached a tangle that refused to come undone despite her best efforts, and began to worry over it with her fingers and the bristles of the brush. There was a violence in the act, like the way she used to pore over scabs on her knees as a child, frustrated with their mere presence and the way they'd itch like mad through her socks and stockings. How dare something that was meant to help and heal be so wretchedly frustrating. How dare it frustrate _her_, the person it was meant to benefit.

Little jolts and bursts of pain followed this recent fervor of self-improvement. Clara knew she was tugging at her own hair, perhaps even pulling it out – but the anger was alive, unabated and triumphant. Let it stay for a little longer, she thought. The pain could be endured. And the knot simply _had _to die.

"Here. Let me try for a bit." The Doctor's hand caught the brush in a gentle but firm grasp before she could do any more damage, and with a curious little twist and release of his fingers, the brush was soon in his hand. With his other hand, he lifted up the knotted part of Clara's hair and held it in his open palm. Starting from the top – near that bump in her scalp she was sure was _not _there, but she would feel for later when she came home – the Doctor began to move the brush through Clara's hair in long, even strokes. Gentle but strong, slow, steady, and sure.

Clara closed her eyes, took in a long, fortifying breath, and straightened her shoulders. "Was that so hard?" she couldn't resist to ask, smiling. After a moment she added in a little laugh, to let him know it was safe to do the same.

The Doctor simply tutted. "Not at all," he said. His touch undid the tangle in a matter of seconds, and before Clara could allow herself to be grateful about this new-found, delicate skill, he opened his mouth to let out another batch of _Doctory _charm. Seems the temptation to add in another word was too great for him to resist. "Quite fine, actually. Brittle, I'd say. Might want to get that looked at."

Clara opened her eyes. "By who, exactly?"

"Whoever puts the highlighters in your hair." The Doctor reached forward to the box of hair accessories and held up a simple black Alice band. There was a dark red thread of sequins running through the center of the band, a surprise to any when she turned her head to let them catch the light. He fit the band onto her as if stacking glass upon glass, careful not to touch her, and withdrew once it was in place. Just a quick step and a clench of his fists, and he was at a safe distance again. "There. If you're so keen on the dark look, which washes you out and makes you look wan and grumpy. I'd say that one looks best."

Clara turned her head from side to side. Plain, simple, unassuming. But it suited her. She cast a wry glance at the Doctor's new coat, noting with a silent smirk that they matched.

"What? What's that look for?" the Doctor asked.

"Would you like to do another favor for me?" Clara turned to face him, putting her hands on her knees for leverage as she pushed herself to her feet.

"That's not a question," the Doctor said. "It's a trick, a trick pretending to be a question. Don't think I haven't noticed when you do that, Clara." He was talking faster, his nerves coming undone. Which was precisely what Clara wanted.

She gave him a smile and waited for his visible fretting to pass. The Doctor eyed her warily as she stepped closer to him, giving the lapels of his coat an experimental pull and tweak, grabbing at lint she saw there. "Come with me tonight," she said.

"Why would I do that?"

"Because I don't want to go alone. And you owe me."

"For what?"

_Trenzalore. Dinosaur. Leaving me alone with killbots below a restaurant in Victorian London._ But Clara wouldn't mention those, though they certainly warranted mentioning. Not now. Another time, perhaps. "For that comment you said earlier about me being _Clara-y_. Don't think I didn't hear it."

"Don't know how you _couldn't_ hear it," he began, leaning back and to the side as she began to brush off his shoulders now, primping him with a polite smile. "Look at your ears. They stick out with your hair all pushed back like that, over your shoulders, freeing up that little stem… neck… thing you've got. You should fix it."

"Says the man whose eyebrows are in constant danger of taking flight." Clara took another step forward, prodding his chest with her finger. "You're coming with me, Doctor," she said, and to make a point she began to walk towards the bedroom door, trusting him to follow.

And follow he did, bringing with him an argument. "I hate these things. They're always boring. Terrible food and worse jokes."

"Then it's a good thing you'll be with me," Clara said, grabbing her coat from off its hook by the front door and sliding her arms into it. "You'll have someone to complain to all night long. I'll even laugh at your jokes if you laugh at mine."

She heard him huff indistinctly, starting another argument, but the door was open and she was already through it before he could properly begin. "Don't forget to lock up, Doctor. And hold onto the key, yeah? Haven't got pockets in this dress — unless I should hide it down the front?"

The Doctor swore beneath his breath, muttering darkly about bodices and cups — but he did as she asked, with much grumbling and fussing, though that didn't quite match the smirk Clara saw brightening up his face.


End file.
